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Border Bride. Deborah Hale
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“I was that surprised to see you again after so many years, it took me aback. I hope you’ll forgive me for being so ungracious, and let us start over.”
Con choked on a hasty bite of his bread, but gave a vigorous nod as he coughed to clear his throat.
“I knew you would.” Under the table, she pressed her knee against his, enjoying Con’s unease at the same time she felt uneasy over her enjoyment of the sensation. “You never did hold a grudge.”
No, he hadn’t been constant even in that. Was it any wonder he’d found his way from one woman’s bed to another? Perhaps it was a mercy from heaven that Con hadn’t stayed at her father’s house and been made to wed her, rather than running off to play at war and freeboot around the Holy Land. Sooner or later he’d surely have strayed, and broken her heart worse than his going had.
Howell hadn’t been without his faults, God rest his soul. But at least he’d never been unfaithful to her.
“So you’re content to have me stay awhile at Glyneira?” Con shifted her a sidelong glance as he helped himself to more meat.
“How could I expel a guest who’s claimed the hospitality of my house?” How, indeed? “You’re welcome to remain with us for as long as you wish, Con.”
Then she muttered as if she did not mean him to overhear. “Maybe even longer.”
Perhaps Con didn’t hear…or perhaps he didn’t understand. For the first time since he’d stepped into the hall, the watchful tightness in him seemed to slacken. “I’ll keep out of your way, I promise. And I’ll do all I can to help you ready the place for the more honored guests you’re expecting.”
“You and Idwal have already made a grand start at stocking the larder.”
Idwal had been following their talk with silent attention as he ate. Now he ventured a comment. “Con is a fine…shot.”
“But you knew where to find the game, my friend.” Con shrugged off the praise. “And how best to harry it into range of my bow. The pair of us make a well-matched team.”
Though he chewed on his food and made no reply, a proud, self-conscious smile spread across Idwal’s broad face. When Con lowered his hand onto the bench, Enid fumbled for it and gave his fingers a quick squeeze that had nothing to do with her plan for ousting him from Glyneira.
“Do you mind the time you took me hunting up in the Gwynedd hills and got us lost?” she asked Con.
Hot and sweaty from walking, they’d stripped off their clothes and cavorted in a stream like a pair of otter pups. When Con had swiped her bare flesh in play, the sensation had felt different than any time he’d touched her before. From that day, her girlish fondness for him had taken on an ever sharper edge of womanly desire.
“Lost? Not a bit of it. I knew where we were well enough.” Con took a long thirsty swig from his cup of cider. “It was all those hills and trees between us and home that caused the trouble.”
She could laugh over it with him now, marveling that the years had not tarnished his easy confidence. At the time, she’d feared they might wander the wooded hills until they starved. Worse yet, she’d worried over how her father would rage when, and if, they found their way back.
Fortunately they’d stumbled across a narrow brook, followed it to a larger one, and followed that until it emptied into the River Conwy some distance downstream from her father’s estate. There had been scoldings and punishment when they got home after sunset, none of which had dimmed Con’s enthusiasm for their next adventure.
That night before he’d gone whistling off to his bed in the hayloft, he’d tickled her on one cheek with the tip of her braid as a feint to let him swoop in with a kiss on the other. “All’s well that ends well, eh, Mistress Worrywart? Think what fun you’d miss if you didn’t have me around to make life exciting for you.”
She might have told him that she didn’t crave excitement the way he did, but what would’ve been the use? Con had needed a steady diet of thrills the way most folk required meat and drink, air and sleep. He’d never been able to fathom how anyone might feel otherwise.
“I’ll skin that brace of conies we bagged to line your winter hood.” Recalling Con’s parting words to her on that eventful night, Enid’s belly churned.
She’d treasured that hood lined with soft rabbit fur—one material gift from a lad who’d had so little to give, apart from the elusive magic of his company.
Here he sat beside her again after all these years, a man grown, one lean hip pressed snug against hers, eyes glittering with infectious merriment which time had not dimmed. That old bothersome magic stirred again just beneath the surface of Enid’s skin, prompting her feet to dance, her voice to sing and her heart to skip in a fast wild jig.
A coal burst in the hearth just then, with a loud crack and a shower of sparks. Almost like a warning that she might be playing with fire.
Enid gave a guilty start at the noise and pressed her hand to her bosom.
Casting her a wry look, Con chuckled. “You’re strung too tight, woman. I imagine it’s a great responsibility to be master and mistress both of Glyneira. You need to take your ease now and again. It’s not good for a body to work and worry all the time. Physicians in the East say it’ll put the humors out of balance, then you’ll be more apt to fall ill.”
From Enid’s other side, Idwal spoke up. Was it only her fancy, or had her brother-in-law grown more talkative in the short time since their guest had come? “You should…take her fishing…Con.”
“That wasn’t quite what I meant.” Con stuffed his mouth with meat and bread, as if the familiar act of eating suddenly required his full concentration.
“I think it’s a fine idea,” Enid said. “I can hardly remember the last time I was out in a coracle. Don’t they say a change is almost as good as a rest?”
The little round boats favored by the Welsh might be the perfect vehicle for her flirtation with Con. Out on the river they’d be well away from any curious eyes and ears. The whole experience might bring back pleasant memories from their youth when they’d paddled about on the upper reaches of the River Conwy in Gwynedd.
Besides, Glyneira needed to lay in a greater supply of fish against the arrival of Lord Macsen and his party. And while they were out there, close and alone, Enid would cast her net for Con ap Ifan.
When the time came to leave his place at the table and take up his harp, Con couldn’t decide whether he was sorry…or relieved.
What had gotten into Enid? Her explanation sounded sensible enough—that she’d been too surprised by his sudden arrival to greet him as graciously as she ought. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to swallow it whole.
The Enid he’d known would never change course in so drastic a fashion, especially in the blink of an eye, like this. She’d never been given to impulsive action, like he was. And once she’d made up her mind, she clung to it with calm tenacity that no amount of reasoning or arguing could sway. Often enough, Con had thought the elfin slip of a girl more stubborn than any massive ox he’d ever coaxed to plow a furrow.
Picking up his harp, Con spent a few moments tuning it. Then, with his eyes fixed on Enid, he began to play and sing.
“Blackbird, oh, blackbird with your dark silken wings. Blackbird with your beak of gold and your silver tongue. Fly for me to a distant shore and ask there how my beloved does.”
Whenever Con ap Ifan had crooned this ballad during his long voluntary exile from the land of his birth, Enid’s face had always been the one to rise in his mind.
This spring evening, as he plucked his